Oddspots
by Beloved-Stranger
Summary: Like many authors I have a great many bits of stories that I just had to get down, but then never had the time/inspiration to finish. So, I thought I'd throw these into the already polluted depths of the internet for our mutual amusement. Fun times.
1. In Which It All Goes Horribly Right

**Disclaimer:** I have a prodigious collection of stuff...none of which includes _Supernatural_.

**AN:** Hokay! So, I, like many authors, have a great many snippets and oddspots of stories that I just had to get down, but then never had the time or the inspiration to finish. So, because I'm attempting to commit to my novel and Starry Skye right now, I thought I'd throw these into the already polluted depth of the internet for our mutual amusement. I may pick up some of them later, but for now, well...you guys know what I'm like.

This one's pre-series; Sam is just reaching the end of his first semester at Stanford, cramming for exams...and about to get a phonecall. I really like this one...

**

* * *

In Which It All Goes Horribly Right**

The time difference between Cali and Minnesota is about two hours.

Therefore, while it's a reasonable hour Land of Ten Thousand Lakes, The Sunshine State has yet to see the sun, which means that Sam is still in bed sleeping off an all-nighter and is as yet incapable of forming linear thoughts that don't end in _'…various strategies of indirectness by which this can be achieved.'_

What the various strategies of indirectness can achieve isn't clear, but what is clear is that the phone is ringing.

Sam reaches out one hand and knocks it off the hook.

The ringing persists.

Not the landline then.

He lifts his face from the pillow, scratches absently at his cheek where the crushed linen has left a print and digs for his cell under the junk littering his bedside table.

_Eureka._

He hits 'call' without looking at the number and says, "Wuh."

There's a short pause, and then a woman's voice says cautiously, "Uh, hello?"

"'lo?" Sam says back.

"Um. I think I may have the wrong number…is John there? John Winchester?"

_What in the hell…?_

He levers himself upright, frowning. "No," he says. "No, John doesn't live here. I'm Sam Winchester; maybe you got the wrong number out of the directory…?"

"No," she says, gently determined. "I don't think so. He gave me his number himself. Are you…are you family of his? Could you pass on a message?"

Sam's jaw clenches. It's been months, but the argument still plays over his eyes and ears in full Dolby surround sound and evil, evil Technicolor.

"_You walk out that door, Sam, don't even think of ever coming back through it again!"_

"I'm his son," Sam says tightly, because it's not something he'll ever be able to deny, "but I'm sorry, I can't pass on a message. He's away and…and we don't really talk."

"You don't talk often or…" the woman prompts hesitantly.

"Or at all," Sam finishes.

"…oh." There's a pause. "You're his son, you said?"

"Yeah, his youngest."

"Uh-huh," she says, and Sam immediately thinks, 'this woman knows something I don't.'

"Sorry, uh, I didn't catch your name," he says.

"Kate," she answers, "Kate Milligan. I, uh, I met your dad back in nineteen-ninety when he was working here for a while. He and one of the local deputies came into the ER all torn up when I was working the graveyard shift."

"Sounds familiar," Sam mutters almost without meaning to.

"Yeah…" says Kate, and he can hear the faintly sardonic smile in her voice, "kinda got the impression he was a regular. Anyway, I stitched him back up and we started talking, you know, as you do."

Sam does, after all he's seen his fair share of Emergency Rooms, but doesn't interrupt.

"And. Um. Wow, this is awkward."

Sam's burning up with curiosity now and so tries to put her at her ease. Ever the people person.

"If it makes you feel any better, I walking in on my roommate making out with a guy yesterday."

Kate lets out a surprised cough. "You didn't know he was…?"

"No. It was kind of alarming actually. I mean, I have Ethics on Thursdays with his girlfriend."

"Oh, good God." She giggles a bit and Sam smiles. "Oh, dear. Hmmm. Thank you, that does make me feel better actually. I've no idea why." She lets out a sigh. "How can I put this…?"

"You could try blurting?"

"Ah, okay. Well, you said you were John's youngest?"

"Yeah."

"Not any more…"

"I'm sorry?"

Kate takes a deep breath. "Six weeks after John Winchester left Windom, Minnesota in January of nineteen-ninety I discovered that the reason I'd been sick and started craving maple-walnut and jalapeno ice cream was not because of a stomach bug."

Sam's brain leaps into action and makes a few lightning quick connections.

Then it stalls at the obvious conclusion and goes, 'Holy Fuck.'

"Holy fuck," says Sam.

"That's what I said," Kate says dryly. "I really wish I didn't have to tell you this over the phone, but…Adam's twelve now and he's been asking questions about his father… This is the only number for John that I could find that works. Only it apparently doesn't."

"He…Dad can barely work a toaster," Sam tells her, in a kind of cotton-woolly shock. "He probably mucked up a call divert or something. You said…his name's Adam?"

"After my dad, yeah." He can hear how her voice goes soft and a kind of thoughtful warmth seeps in. "They look very alike…but now that Adam's getting older, every so often I'll look at him and see these little glimpses of John." She sighs again. "John, who never said anything about having a family."

"He wouldn't have," Sam says, unable to keep the bitterness from leaking out of him.

Kate's quiet, and Sam's suddenly afraid he's said something to upset her. Then she says something that pretty much blows him out of the water.

"Sam, where are you right now?"

"Uh, college. Stanford, in Palo Alto. So, pretty much the other side of the country."

"Uh-huh," says Kate thoughtfully. "Are you busy this weekend?"

**

* * *

AN:** This was going to be a Sam-centric, finding-that-missing-sense-of-family fic (a breed which I so dearly love), but I just got swamped with other stuff and had to let it sit..._sigh_.


	2. Call Divert

This particular oddspot takes place during 2x01 In My Time of Dying, and starts with John having just laid down that summoning spell in the hospital basement...

**

* * *

Call Divert**

However things were going to turn out, John knew they were going to be painful.

But not in his wildest nightmares had he ever seen this coming.

He'd no sooner spoken the words of the ritual then there was the sound of heels on the concrete. He looked up, came face to face with a young woman. Long brown hair, heart-shaped face and God, she couldn't have been more than twenty. She must have been visiting someone in the hospital because John didn't see any staff ID or a patient's bracelet, just gold jewelry at her ears and wrist, tall heels and a blouse-and-pencil-skirt combo that made her look like some high-flyer's secretary.

"You rang?" she – _it_ – asked pleasantly.

John brought the Colt up, sighted down the barrel.

"You and I need to have a talk," he growled.

It eyed the gun disdainfully. "Well, clearly."

There was a pause.

"What was it you wanted to talk about?" the thing enquired.

"You know," John ground out.

It looked amused, the corners of the girl's mouth going up. "I might, but I need to hear it from you. There's value to the spoken word you know."

John was becoming increasingly confused. This wasn't like the demon he knew. There was no gloating, no mocking. It simply stood there, hands folded in front of it, watching him with a look of polite interest on its stolen features. This thing was…courteous.

It was unnerving.

"I…" He swallowed. "I wanna make a deal."

The thing nodded. "Alright."

John's hackles rose. "I give you the Colt, you make Dean better."

He watched, heart in his mouth as the creature's fine brows drew together. Its lips parted, as though puzzled. The clear hazel eyes examined him from head to toe…and focused on the summoning seal at his feet.

"Odd," it murmured. "Before we go any further, could you tell me why you used that particular summoning ritual?"

John frowned. "What? Why?"

"Color me curious," it said, eyes still on the bold chalk lines. "This symbol is also known as the Seal of Saturn, whose creature is the Dragon." It looked back up at him. "The Dragon, in the Judeo-Christian creed at any rate, is another name for the Devil." It smiled. "Or a devil, anyway."

John cocked the gun. "Which means you."

To his utter shock, the thing laughed. Actually laughed! It choked a little, smiling as though trying not to laugh in his face but was unable to smother a bright giggle.

"Oh dear," it said, still chuckling behind slender fingers. "Oh dear, oh dear. Oh, Mr. Winchester, you seem to be under the impression that we have a preexisting relationship. Which we don't, you know. This is the first time I've laid eyes on you."

John felt like he was standing on sand that was rapidly washing away from under his feet.

"No," he said, voice rising. "No, that's _not_ true! You're lying! You killed my wife, my son's girlfriend, dozens, hundreds of others!"

The girl's face went flat. "Now that's just insulting. I've done no such thing." Its eyes narrowed. "Mr. Winchester," it said firmly, "whoever or _what_ever you think I am…I'm not the creature that hurt your family. You believe me to be a demon, correct?"

John's jaw clenched.

"I see… Mr. Winchester, the ritual you used calls on the Dragon. One with eyes the color of the sun."

It closed its eyes. Opened them…

John's jaw dropped open.

They were gold. Not ugly, malignant yellow, but bright, luminous gold. Like she had lit candles behind her eyes, the buttery light spilling from pupil and iris, making the whites glow.

"Thousands of years ago, I was a dragon, and my eyes are still the color of the sun."

She smiled.

"There are more things on this earth to make deals with than just demons, Mr. Winchester. And luckily for you, not all of them want you dead."

* * *

It was dark here, the only light falling in stilted bars across his face and his brother's bed.

"Dean, are you here?"

No answer, not that he was expecting one. Still, some sign would have been nice, just…just something. He kept talking anyway.

"I couldn't find anything in the book. I don't know how to help you. But I'll keep trying', all right? As long as you keep fightin'…"

He tried for a low laugh, but it felt thin and uncertain in his mouth. A piecemeal sound.

"I mean, come on, you can't leave me here alone with Dad, we'll kill each other, you know that."

His smile faded, eyes burning… "Dean, you gotta hold on. You can't go, man, not now. We were just starting to be brothers again." He paused, unsure again.

"Can you hear me?"

* * *

Desperate times…

"Look, I'm sure you've heard this before…but you've gotta make an exception. You've gotta cut me a break."

…desperate measures.

"Stage three," Tessa murmured, eyes sympathetic. "Bargaining."

He felt the panic starting and fought it down.

"I'm serious," he told her. "My family's in danger. See, we're kind of in the middle of this…war. And they need me."

"The fight's over."

He should have known, really; reapers are relentless. It didn't stop him from trying, though. Have to keep trying…trying for Dad. For Sammy.

"No, it isn't."

"It is for you." Her face was soft, but implacable. "Dean, you're not the first soldier I've plucked from the field. They all feel the same. They can't leave, victory hangs in the balance. But they're wrong. The battle goes on without them."

Something in his chest felt like it was rending in half. "My brother," he said, voice shaking a little, "he could die without me."

* * *

"A _dragon_?" John said.

"Yes."

"_Really_?"

"For the fifth time, John," Que said, smiling, "really."

"And you name is…Chinese?"

She snickered delicately. "No, I'm not that kind of dragon. Asia's dragons are sky-dwellers. Heavenly creatures. They consider themselves above deal-making. Mind you, they don't have much of an interest in this world anymore, whereas I do."

John could feel his interest piquing. "What kind of dragon are you, then? And what kind of dragon has an interest in the modern world?"

"What do you know about the Aztecs?"

"Not much," he admitted.

"Well, what you need to know is that one of their objects of worship was a serpent. A great rainbow-feathered python named Quetzalcoatl."

"A dragon with eyes like the sun," John said. "You."

"Exactly." Que smiled. "Of course I was bigger then. I could wrap myself twice around the middle of the Empire State Building and cut it in half with one flex of my sides. My wings blocked the sun when I spread them and flew, and so people used to see by the light of my eyes as I passed over them. I wore feathers the color of every jewel on the planet but when I wanted to disappear they could be any color in the universe."

"You were a pagan god," John said softly.

Que smiled and ducked her head as though he'd told her she was pretty. "I was," she said softly. Then she looked up, and there was a glint of gold behind her pupils. "I am, however diminished. And now… now, I make deals with mortals to keep the species from annihilation."

John shook his head, incredulous. "This is insane. It is. I'm in a hospital boiler room with a fallen god." He narrowed his eyes at her. "And I'm yet to see how saving Dean is its own reward. There's always a catch. There has to be."

She sighed, exceedingly long suffering. "Look. You, your wife, your boys, you're all part of something _bigger_."

Her gaze was intense, touching something inside of John that made him catch his breath, freezing like a creature hiding in the grass that has unexpectedly met the eyes of a predator.

"I could be killed for telling you this," she tells him. "I could be ripped from existence and strewn across the galaxy never to be whole again. Eternal torment beyond human understanding. You need to know how much I'm risking, how much I'm investing in you, John Eric Winchester."

He nodded, breathless. He'd never been so terrified in his life.

She studied him for moment before nodding to herself.

"Alright. You and I both know what Azazel has planned for your youngest. What you _don't_ know is that his trial by fire will be the first stage of the Judeo-Christian Apocalypse."

"The end of the world?"

"The end of the world as you know it. The first stage is brought about by the death of one of your sons. Either Sam becomes a demon in human form and kills his brother, or he dies and Dean sells his soul to bring him back."

John swallowed hard. Its one thing, to know your children are part of plans made by a creature that has torn your family apart, it's quite another to hear a pagan god tell you. John knew it was going to be horrific, but he never could have conceived of this…

"And me?" he asked, full of trepidation.

"As far as I can tell? Dead. If the one you intended to show up had gotten this call instead of me, he would have demanded your life. He would have to be monumentally stupid not to."

He nodded. "I understand. What do I have to do to stop it?"

Que gazed at him sadly. "It's not what you have to do, John, it's what you have to give up."

* * *

"…No. I'm not goin' with you," Dean told her, resolute. "I don't care what you do."

Tessa just watched him sadly, maybe a little resigned. "Well…like you said; there's always a choice. I can't make you come with me. But you're not getting back in your body. And that's just facts. So yes, you can stay. You'll stay here for years, disembodied, scared. And over the decades, it'll probably drive you mad. Maybe you'll even get violent."

Dean stared at her, horror filling him, sour as curdled milk. In his mind's eye, he saw the glass of water going over, the looks of surprise on Dad and Sam's faces.

"What are you sayin'?"

"Dean…" she said, and her distant empathy just curdled his fear further, "how do you think angry spirits are born? They can't let go, and they can't move on. And you're about to become one – the same thing you hunt."

He stepped away from her, feeling like the world was slipping out from under his feet again. Pulling away, falling…

* * *

John stared, unseeing, at the chalk lines at his feet. He never could have foreseen this, never dreamed that this would be how it would end…

"And he won't…he won't remember…?"

Que shook her head, watching him from were she leant against the wall.

"No. Not a thing." She tilted her head to the side, gaze sharpening as John let out a low sigh. "I could swear you look relieved."

John looked up at her, weary, and though the guilt coiled hot in his stomach – _will he ever forgive me?_ – he nodded.

"I am. Heaven help me, I am."

"Heaven," Que murmured thoughtfully. "No, John, do not beseech heaven…" A small bitter smile curled one corner of her mouth. "Beseech the Fates instead. Beg for us all. Then maybe your pleas won't fall on deaf ears."

She turned from him, raised her hand and began to paint lines of light upon the stagnant, humid air.

"Go to your sons, John," she said over her shoulder. "Go say your goodbyes."

* * *

It was like distance. It was…it was like looking behind you, and seeing something familiar on the horizon, but not wanting to go towards it. Pulling away…

"It's time to put the pain behind you."

He was…he was, but, "And go where?"

"Sorry," she murmured. "I can't give away the big punch line." He felt her hand gently squeezing his shoulder. "Moment of truth. No changing your mind later. So what's it going to be?"

Moment of truth…stay here, become something to be hated and hunted, or go into the unknown. He remembered his mother's words, so long ago, almost another life away; _angels are watching over you, baby, go to sleep…_

But Mom was dead, and if he left… if he left, what? His body was unusable. He wasn't going anywhere.

He turned to her, ready and –

Overhead, the lights flickered.

Cautious, the pair of them climbed to their feet.

"What are you doin' that for?" he asked, and the fear was back, sickly sweet as it bit into his sides and belly.

He saw it reflected back at him in Tessa's face, in her eyes. "I'm not doing it."

"No," a voice breathed through the dimly lit room, bringing the scent of jasmine and rain with it. "That would be me."

Every light bulb in the room shattered, sending down showers of white sparks. The showers became torrents, whirling dervishes that in turn became the coils of a massive body. Dean saw scales forming along its sides and the white light breaking up into brushstrokes of brilliantly colored feathers, twin arcs becoming wings that filled the room.

While the body roiled, the head remained perfectly still; the skull of a giant snake, swiftly fleshed with glinting scales and a mane of rainbow feathers, its eyes filled with the sweet, burning light of the sun.

"Que?" Tessa breathed.

"Tessa," the feathered serpent said, its voice at once a roar of wind and singing of chimes, "there has been a change of plans."

Its ancient, ageless gaze switched to Dean, who stood rooted to the spot, transfixed. A smile seemed form on the great creature's mouth.

"You have somewhere to be, Dean Winchester."

There was a rush of light and movement. He heard Tessa gasp and closed his eyes against the sudden brightness, opening them a second later to find himself wrapped in those shining coils, the massive wings cocooning him. The thing's face was inches from him.

"This is the end of the world as you know it, Dean," it – no, no, _she_ – breathed. "Though you will not remember it…"

Everything went white.

* * *

There was something in his throat, something choking him!

He lurched upwards, coughing violently, trying to reach for the thing. Above him, someone was yelling powerfully for _help_ and he silently agreed.

"Dean," the someone said, and through the blurring of his tears he made out a face with green eyes. Familiar, unfamiliar. What…what was going on?

Then there was someone else there, someone in a white uniform, telling the other to step back, please. Tape was pulled from his face, the tube removed from his throat – thank God – and then there was a tall man by his bed, looking at him with those brilliant green eyes, all full of hope.

"Dean, it's going to be okay…"

"Great," he rasped in reply. "now, who are you?"

* * *

The first thing Sam did upon seeing his father was sock him in the teeth.

"What did you do?" he roared as John bent over his bed spitting blood. "What did you do to Dean?"

His father cast him a sidelong look and cautiously wiped the red staining from his face. "You know I'd almost forgotten what your right hook felt like."

"Don't you dare change the subject! What did you do!" Sam snarled.

John sighed and shook his head. He looked…he looked tired. Tired and very, very sad.

"I fixed things. As far as I can, I fixed things." He sighed deeply. "Although I don't know how much good it will do us. She wasn't very clear on that…"

Sam's hackles went up in warning. "_Who_ wasn't clear on _what_? You're being goddamned cryptic again, Dad."

"I know. I know, Sammy, and I'm sorry. Look, would you just sit down already. Sit down and I'll explain."

Sam froze. "Explain what?"

His father held his eyes, gaze deep and steady and something in Sam's brain clicked over. This was big. This was so big…

"Everything," John said softly. "Sam, I've been bull-headed about this, I know it. But someone very old and very wise gave me a few home-truths –" he smiled ruefully – "and she wasn't gentle about it. There are things you need to know. Stuff I need to tell you."

Sam cautiously sat down, feeling for the chair in an effort not to take his eyes off his father. "Dad, what things?"

"You asked me if I knew what sort of plans the Demon has for you."

Sam nodded. "And for all the children like me. You said you didn't know." He narrowed his eyes. "But you do know, don't you? You lied, again."

John looked down, regret lining his face. It made him look older, and something about that frightened Sam.

"Yeah," his father murmured, voice rough. "Yeah. Sam, I don't expect you to forgive me. I don't. But I need you to listen to what I'm going to tell you, because it will help you survive, and it'll help me help you…"

**

* * *

AN2:** And that was where I ran out of steam and the whole thing collapsed in on itself. Fun times.


	3. Runs in the Family

**AN:** Wow, the response to these oddspots has been pretty cool. I mostly thought it was going to be hurled cyber fruit. Anyway, skipping way forward now to a little something I wrote in the aftermath of Swan Song. Sam's just taken that final plunge into the Cage...and wakes up somewhere he didn't expect.

**

* * *

Runs in the Family**

He woke in the dark…

But on a couch, with a laptop screen blaring blue and white light at him from a wooden coffee table and welter of paper across his lap.

His first thought was surprisingly Dean-like.

_Oh, God, how much did I drink last night?_

About then, common sense kicked in and he realized he wasn't hung-over.

The flash of memories was so hard and fast he curled in a reflexive ball and bit down on his sleeve to keep from crying out.

_Blood, blood in his mouth, on his hands, pungent and tainted and filling him up with ancient, awful power. The rush, the buzz, the lurking terror that filtered slowly away and then consumed him when he looked into the angel's eyes and said, "Yes."_

Ruthlessly, he shoved it all away, shoved it all down. Now was not the time.

But still: falling into a pit of doom with your younger brother and a pair of angry archangels was in no way conducive to waking up on a comfy sofa in…

He sat up and looked around, taking in the sofa, it's matching armchairs, the coffee table, the rich cream carpet and the hand-knotted rug on the floor. There were pictures on the walls in silver frames, an antique-looking liquor cabinet stocked with elegant bottles and beautifully cut crystal glasses, light refracting off their multi-faceted surfaces from the street light that filtered in through the tall windows. Each of those was framed with long tie-back drapes – which in turn, perfectly complimented the lounge suite.

In this dim, but exacting light, he could make a tiny replica of a Napoleonic cannon on the carved mantle that framed the fireplace, a Venetian mask and two brass candle sticks shaped like rearing griffins on the top of the walnut paneled piano, a set of plates with stylized portraits of Greek heroes on them lined the middle shelf of the laden bookshelves that seemed to contain everything from photo albums to a modest DVD collection and stood next to a wide flat-screen and stereo system.

It was…a beautiful home. Small, but rich, well lived in; each ornament seemed hand-picked, and though beautiful, had to fight for space and notice with the myriad of photographs, not all of which were framed. Whoever lived here did well, loved their home, and it showed.

Of course, there was still the question of how he got here, and the relative opulence of the dwelling made it inherently suspicious to him.

Cautious, he gathered the papers sprawled across his knees and set them on the coffee table next to the computer, before getting to his feet and circling the room.

It was, of course, the pictures that caught his attention and effortlessly held it.

Mostly, because they were of him.

He stared, transfixed, at his own image. He stood in graduation robes, age eighteen he guessed, grinning from between Dean – and his father. There was another, in a matching frame, with him again, and Dean and Dad, but this time there were three other people with them; a blonde woman that he recognized with a start as Kate Milligan, and beside her a tall, gangly boy that was Adam at what must have been twelve. There was a girl standing next to him, in matching graduation robes, who's dark eyes, dark hair and angular features he didn't recognize, though his eighteen-year-old self and her were arm in arm, grinning like they'd been handed the world on a plate.

Breathing hard, he looked at the rest of the photos; at the ones of him growing up alongside Dean and the girl, and later it seemed, Adam. There was one picture of the four children together; Dean smiling with one arm around Sam and the other around the little dark-haired girl. Adam, who looked to be barely two, was on Sam's lap. There were others of the four of them sitting on the hood of the Impala; Dean eighteen, elated, with his siblings ranged around him.

Another next to that, just Sam this time, with a girl sitting beside him in a diner's booth; Sarah Blake in a wool coat and scarf, her hair in braids and her smile bright. There were others of the pair of them; in the snow by a lake, on horseback in a stand of trees, at a family picnic, with that unfamiliar dark-haired girl – older now – in what looked like an art gallery, with friends in a restaurant, in formalwear with a…with a wedding party.

_Holy God._

Dean's wedding.

His big brother in a suit, Jo – oh, God, _Jo_ – glowing in a white gown, wrapped in his arms.

Dad was there too, and Bobby, and Ellen. Pamela was in one of the bigger photos along with Caleb, Rufus, Ash, Pastor Jim…

Sam fought to breathe…especially when the first picture he found on the piano was of he and Dean clinking champagne glasses, grinning, while Dean cradled a tiny, pink-faced bundle in an equally pink blanket.

_What…what was going on?_

He backed up, taking a few unsteady steps. The movement brought him level with the couch again, and he noticed for the first time that there were three doors out of the room.

The one to the right was open and offered a glimpse of a wood and ceramic kitchen. The sliding double doors behind him were half open, showing him an eight-seater dinning room. The third led to a darkened hallway and, with rising anxiety and no small amount of trepidation, Sam stepped down this hallway. He crept, breath rasping, down to the door at the end of the hall…and without quite knowing why, gently eased open the door.

It was the master bedroom. Sam froze in the doorway, staring.

There was a wicker laundry basket with a pair of familiar jeans hanging over its lip, a closet filled with half-recognizable clothing, both male (oh, God) and female, and a pair of sneakers in one corner, laces still knotted, that were his size exactly.

And on the bed was a long, curved figure, her hair a banner of black silk across the downy whiteness of the bed linen.

Sam swallowed hard.

On cat's feet, he went round the side of the mattress and gently, fingers barely a breath away from her skin, brushed the hair from her face.

His breath caught in his throat.

"Sarah…"

**

* * *

AN2:** Yeah, its weird. The backstory is big and bad and convoluted and more than I can feasibly put into an author's note without making it longer than the text itself.


	4. Wayward Sons and Daughters

**AN**: So, this is from way back when I had this whole intense AU planned out – you know, back when I thought I had spare time and less novel-related-guilt crushing the life from my fragile human bones. Also, be kind to Jane. Her life is hard, yo.

* * *

**Wayward Sons and Daughters**

In December of 1989 a file labelled 'WINCHESTER, Dean; Samuel' came across the desk of social worker named Jane Elkins.

Jane took one look at that surname and uttered a low, but fervent "fuck."

She'd heard about John Winchester. He and her daddy were cut from the same damn cloth when you got right down to it, and when Jane drove down to see Dad it was hard not to listen to the gossip. Winchester was making a name for himself, and for his two small boys.

Jane breathed roughly through her nose and began reading, making notes on her jotter pad as she did.

The last school to see those boys – Samuel and Dean – had been an elementary in Fort Douglas, WI. They had been there two weeks, according to the file, during which a police officer had given a talk to Dean's class. The cop noticed Dean because he didn't seem interested in the stories he was telling, all the thrilling heroics of police work going right past the boy. As though he'd heard worse.

In a monumental twist of fate, that same cop was called to an incident in a motel where shots were heard. A man calling himself Elroy McGillicuddy was found at the scene address along with two small boys – one of whom was Dean. The cop didn't call Winchester on his false details, but quietly put through a referral to Child Services.

Now, it turned out, the case had been put through to Windom because Winchester had come up on the radar of the local authorities, and where he was, his boys probably weren't far behind. There were no corresponding school records as yet…and Jane had a feeling there wouldn't be.

Winchester was more wary than ever now, and he was playing it safe.

Jane was going to have to do the same.

* * *

_Why me_, she was still thinking, five hours later as she tucked her hands a little deeper into her coat pockets and trudged up the drive to the front door. _Why me, God?_

God was characteristically quite on the subject. Bastard.

Jane sighed. Being careful was one thing, but this? This was jumping the gun. Still… the first thing Dad had taught her was _be prepared, girlie, because you never know what kind of crap will be waiting for you around the next bend._

The next thing he'd taught her was to listen to her instincts; sometimes they knew more than the rest of your brain, and right now her instincts were screaming _'Lesson one! Lesson one!'_

So here she was, being prepared.

She hit the doorbell and waited. The hall light went on behind the door's leadlight a moment before there was the rattle of safety chain and it slide open a few inches.

Kate Milligan took one look at her before shutting the door – chain rattling again – and swinging it wide with a soft, "Come on in, Jane, its freezing out there."

"Thanks," Jane murmured, following the nurse inside.

Kate guided her through to the kitchen. "I've just made tea…"

"Please." Jane settled at the breakfast bar, waiting for the inevitable. "I'm sorry to bother you so late but…"

"Is this about Lucy?" Kate blurted, face hesitant but with those blue eyes burning.

Jane smiled as she accepted her mug of tea, loving the warmth that flowing from the blue ceramic into her frigid fingers. "No," she told Kate, watching the other woman slump a little with relief. "Not really."

"So…you're not going to move her? Not another placement?"

"No, she's staying here," Jane reassured her, voice gentle. "We're hugely happy with having Lucy here, Kate. I actually wanted to talk to you about some other children."

Kate frowned, taking a seat beside her and wrapping her hands around her own steaming mug. "Other children? Other _foster_ children?"

Jane took a deep breath. _Be prepared, Janey, always be prepared…_

"Yeah, sort of," said Jane. "Another _hunter's_ children."

* * *

Two nights later, she was back in the cold, only this time there was a sawn-off shotgun in a sling hidden under her coat and a handful salt'n'pepper shells in her right pocket as she stood leaning against one of the graveyard's mausoleums.

She'd been there for two hours and was in the middle of thanking God for the wonders of thermal underwear when she spotted him; the predicted dark figure in his dark coat. It was a clear night, and she could make out matching dark hair and a duffle over his left shoulder.

He was clever, she thought, holding his own shotgun close to the line of his body, keeping it from being spotted by a distant watcher. Jane herself only caught a glimpse of it because she knew what to look for.

Shaking her head slowly, she sighed (seemed to be doing a lot of that lately) and made a start towards him. She saw the moment he noticed her; coming to attention and freezing where he stood. It was a safe bet that the shotgun was cocked and ready to swing in her direction the moment she put a toe over the line of normal.

"Can I help you?" he called, voice low and graveled.

Jane came to a halt five feet from him and raised her hands in a gesture of surrender.

"You could un-cock the shotgun you're holding behind you," she said, "that'd make me feel better, at least."

His eyes narrowed. In this light, she couldn't tell what color they were, only that they were dark, like the rest of him. "Who are you?"

"Jane Elkins," she told him. "But you can go ahead and ask the 'what are you' question if it'll make _you_ feel better."

He ignored the last part and stared at her, eyes fairly burning with interest now. "Elkins?"

"Thought you'd pick that up," she muttered.

"As in Daniel Elkins? You're related?"

"He's my father," she admitted.

Winchester's thick eyebrows went up. "Your accent…"

"My mother raised me across the pond. I met him when I was thirteen. Look, speaking of family, we need to discuss yours."

The hunter's face hardened. "We don't," he said, striding away from her.

Jane rolled her eyes and simply strode after him. "Yes, we do."

"I'm in the middle of something," he snapped.

"The recent grave desecrations?"

He pulled up short and stared at her again. "You're a hunter?"

"No, I'm a social worker, but I'm not an idiot." She put her hand in her coat pocket and pulled out a few of her shells, letting him see the glitter of the salt packed into the rounds. "Something starts digging up bodies, I'm not going to go into a graveyard unprepared."

"I'm not hunting a ghost," he told her.

"That's why there's buckshot mixed in with the salt."

Winchester's face was still steeped in suspicion. "You said you're a social worker? That's why you want to talk to me?" Everything about him hardened again. "I won't let you take them from me. I won't let you take my boys."

She shook her head. "I don't want to, but you're not exactly doing yourself any favors." Jane felt a sort of swoop in her stomach. This was the risky bit, or the beginning of it anyway. "Look, finish your hunt," she murmured, pulling out her card and handing it to him. "Get all this crap sorted and then… if you want to keep your kids, call me."

His eyes narrowed. "You threatening me?"

She rolled her eyes again as she turned to walk away, calling over her shoulder, "Believe it or not, I'm trying to help you."

* * *

The next day, a local deputy announced on the 6 o'clock news that the desecrations had stopped and stopped for good.

The day after that, Jane got a call from Kate Milligan.

"Guy in the trauma ward wants to talk to you," the nurse told her. "A John Winchester. Jane, is this the guy…?"

"Yeah," Jane said, already on her feet and grabbing her coat. "Tell him I'll be right over."

* * *

The hospital, like all hospitals seem to be, was cold. Jane remembered this when she entered, coming through those sliding doors at central reception to be met by a gust of climate controlled air that warred with the chill at her back. It made her think of her mother, and Dad's strong hands gripping her shoulders when the nurse pulled the sheet over her face and wheeled the body away.

Shaking her head, she pocketed her hat and, hoping her hair wasn't a complete disaster, made her way to the ward.

Kate was there to meet her, looking somehow nervous and controlled at the same time. Jane caught her fidgeting with her fob watch as the young nurse showed her to John Winchester's room.

"And you're sure…?"

"Kate. Yes. I'm sure." She cast the other woman a sidelong look. "Are you sure, though? About all of this? I know it's a lot to take on. I mean rearing one kid single-handed it one thing, but this…"

But Kate nodded, all determination. "I've thought a lot about this," she said softly. "And I've talked to him, you know? I actually got him to open up and talk about them, about his kids." She looked at Jane, eyes welling with sympathy. "He cares about them _so much_, Jane. He loves them so hard. And he hasn't said it, but…I think they're the reason he's doing this; the whole hunting thing."

Jane felt her mouth quirk in a sort of half-smile. "It's the reason a lot of people do it, Kate. Well, part of the reason," she says, muttering the last. After all, Dad had started in on this trade before she was born for several reasons, none of them particularly sane. Noble, maybe, but not _sane_.

Kate tapped at the door to the ward before letting herself and Jane in. She'd managed to get him into one of the smaller double rooms, and since the other bed was unoccupied it was practically private.

"John, Jane's here. Jane Elkins."

Winchester looked up from the leather-bound book in his lap. His hunting journal, no doubt – Jane could see drawing scratched into the pages, and even upside down recognized one of the more elaborate grand pentacles. In day light, she could tell the colour of his eyes; hazel green, with the depth of colour she always wished she'd inherited from her mother, instead of her father's washed out blue.

The hunter didn't smile, but then, who would? Jane didn't take it personally, and settled in the chair Kate had pulled up next to his bed. They said soft goodbyes to Kate as she excused herself and listened as the door clicked shut and her footsteps retreated down the hall.

Winchester cleared his throat. "So, how do we do this?"

"It's not hard. The first priority of child services is to make sure a child is in a stable home environment and that their needs are being taken care of adequately."

"Sounds like a company line to me."

Jane smiled ruefully. "It is a bit, but that's how it goes. If someone notifies the authorities about your sprogs, that's what they'll look for. You can be as transient as you damn like, but that's not going to work for a pair of little boys."

Winchester's face was hard. "I'm doing it for them," he said, voice low. "I'm doing this to keep them safe."

"Which is exactly what the social worker who confiscates them will be thinking. Only they'll be keeping them safe from you." Jane shook her head. "Look, Winchester, Kate's a good woman, and your kids won't be the only ones she's looked after. She's young, but she's had three placements, two of them children of hunters, in the past five years. Her house is warded – by my father, which should tell you all you need to know – and she knows her way around a shotgun."

Winchester was looking back at his journal, eyes hooded. "That's good," he muttered, but the admittance was half-hearted.

Jane watched him for a few moments. "I know you don't want to do this," she said softly.

He looked up at her, a little startled perhaps.

She answered the question in his face with a small smile and shrug. "No normal parent wants to be separated from their child –"

Winchester huffed a brief laugh. "Normal…"

"But the good ones are those who let it happen when they know it's for the good of their children."

He nodded, eyes going distant and sheening faintly. "You know the worst thing I can think of, the very worst thing? Is for Mary to have seen what's become of her family, for her to have seen her children to being raised into…into this."

His fingertips grazed the journal's pages, before his hand curled into a fist briefly. Jane watched his mouth twist as her abruptly shut the book.

"But then I think of that night…of when we lost her, and I think of the thing that took her coming back for the boys…"

"John."

He looked at her again. "Neither of those things has to happen." She smiled. "I think we can help each other…"

* * *

**AN2:** …and then John and Kate totally hooked up and had Adam and Sam and Dean had a semi stable childhood and two extra siblings (cos, Lucy) and basically led lives less shitty.

And then a cosmic kind of shift occurred and canon!Sam woke up in AU!Sam's body in the apartment he shares with Sarah Blake…


End file.
